Inspiration and productivity

There is nothing that I write that is worth much really, they are all empty

Empty words. Put pen to paper, stream of conscious, keep the images coming plenty.

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Keep the mind warm and gurgling, a stream of conscience, keep the scenes vivid

But my fingers fumble and the squirming fishes I try to pluck, they grow rigid

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In my hands away from the stream. There is nothing to write, there is nothing

I can write with my inconsequential phrases, meaningless fussing!

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Empty palms up, it is going through my fingers, all the rain I have been waiting for.

Not a cloud in sight in the tall blue sky, oh why do you leave me dry? I write to bore

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Like all plebeians in the loom of poets, I can feel, think and croak till I am hoarse

But the fish is still dead because of me, better if I had left it, oh why but of course

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The stories have dried and the birds have left I am now a barren land.

Inspiration went up in smoke and I, I am drowning in this sand.

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I have been through nothing I am feeling nothing, my hands are tired

Milking this empty cow. My words mean nothing my verse is nothing, I am hardly inspired

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At all. I should never be a writer when my pages crumble with only a feeble quiver

But no! To be another careless writer packed into boxes, how that thought makes me shiver!

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I will have nothing to say if I have nothing to see and I could never be a writer

If this terrible verse, hard work, had taken my every fiber.

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I get guilty and envious of the shuddering earth and the roaring war

And the poets with a few deft flicks that manage to strike your core.

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They gape in silence, scream in missile and something thunders before their eyes

That is their life timed to the rattle of guns, pressed to the ground and the earth-filled skies.

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Something is stuttering when their souls are breaking, they are fighting to stay

Alive. Something blows up, the man beside shrieks, they are fighting to mean what they say.

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Me, though: paint gloss over their pain with empty privilege,

High and mighty, I wish I was them: turbulent souls, haunted feelings creased in the visage.

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Fleeting river, doe-foot, fish flapping into flight, those murmuring while wearing the inglorious berets

Building visions only they had peeked, everything I want to create. Everything that is not a cliché.